Snitch
by AgnostosTheos
Summary: Ron loves Harry. Harry is, as ever, clueless.


"Yes!"

The triumphant crow from above him and the blur of blue-denim-ugly-maroon speeding past his makeshift hoops was how it started. The victory lap, moaning disbelief from the twins and pile-in of epic proportions wasn't quite the moment of clarity Ron had envisioned after months of aimless pottering, but when the young man rolled off the floor and beamed at him, in loose jeans and with Ron's jumper slipping of his shoulder, he was rendered speechless.

It began with a slow coil in the pit of his stomach. The image before him of Harry, windswept, carefree, _happy, _had sent a jolt through his chest that left him physically aching with sympathetic joy, and, disturbingly, aching with something he didn't like to name, for fear of it forcing him into action.

And so, with a great suffocating band around his chest, he grinned down at the shock of black hair, and said, absolutely and irreversibly…nothing.

The problem with loving Harry Potter, Ron had long since decided, was the sheer, bloody _competition_. Everyone and their mum loved him, and could potentially spout off an impressive list of reasons why that may rival Ron's own, rather paltry list. One thing was for sure though, Ron often thought miserably, there would be no rival for most tragic and pathetic admirer on the planet. Living with your best mate was one thing, but living with your best mate whom you were simultaneously wanting to whisper adorations to and possibly bend over the coffee table was another. And living with your best mate whom you loved but couldn't tell and had to watch being slobbered over by the biggest tossers in Britain was absolute and utter torture.

Ron shuddered as he came, the water of the shower beating away any evidence of his Harry-centric fantasy and swirling it down the drain. Ron stared blankly into the darkness beyond the silver plughole, and contemplated, not for the first time, drowning himself in the half-inch of water soaking his feet.

The morning had become routine. Wake-up, piss, brush teeth, shower, stumble into the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil, and wait with gritted teeth for Harry's door to open. If there was even a hint of dirty blonde, Ron would stalk back into his bedroom and wait for the murmured goodbyes to fade before emerging once again, smile plastered on and with the inclination to strangle something. On these mornings, Harry would guiltily avoid his gaze and chatter brightly, offering sausages, toast, and a capa-whatsit with the machine that Ron flooded with every use.

Ron eyed the door with trepidation, his breath caught in his throat.

_Please, please, please…_

Dark hair. The relief flooded over him in a wave. He offered a genuine smile at the face of his friend and received one in return that made his stomach flip pleasantly. Harry yawned and reached up to tousle his own hair with an itch, Ron's eyes darting from his mouth to the flat pane of pale skin and belly button.

"Morning," Harry yawned again. He slipped into a seat at the island unit, cupping his chin in his hands and blinking sleeping, green eyes foggy and unfocused. Ron pressed a cup of tea into his hands and he smiled in thanks, their fingers grazing familiarly.

"What time did you get in?" he questioned, busying himself with not drinking in the rumpled figure of his friend like a dying man, rinsing his own mug under the tap and setting it aside.

"Uh, I don't know, about two o'clock I think."

Ron frowned, "Two? How's that possible, you finished training at ten?"

Harry glanced at him briefly, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

"Yeah, uh, well I met Jack afterwards."

Just like that, Ron's day plummeted into the pits of utter crapness, and he wanted to weep at the unfairness of it all.

"Oh."

His tone must have sounded as strangled as it felt, for Harry immediately spoke up.

"I know you two hate him, I totally get it, well sort of anyway, but it doesn't even matter, he dumped me last night, I just needed some time on my own so I went for a drink and met up with Oliver, did you know he got engaged? Anyway he seems to make it his goal to get me pissed, and you know what I'm like anyway, two pints and I'm down! So yeah I had to bus it to the Cauldron in the end to floo home and-"

"Wait, hang on, what?" Ron burst out, cutting of the ramble with a hand to the counter. Harry quietened, looking worried and upset and resigned all at once.

"You broke up with Jack?" he asked, scarcely believing his own ears, wondering if he'd finally gone round the twist and begun hearing things.

"Well, he broke up with me."

"Well… what… I mean why?" he asked in a desperate attempt to appear both casual and caring. Harry shrugged and slumped forwards.

"Usual story, can't deal with the fame whilst simultaneously disliking that we never go anywhere," he shrugged again, and clenched his jaw in what Ron recognized as deep unhappiness. "I just sort of thought it might last this time, you know?"

Ron, mindful that he had promised himself something he intended to follow, squashed his own feelings firmly. This was his duty as Harry's best mate, and he would follow that through regardless of the selfish want he felt for Harry deep in his own bones.

"Ah mate, he was a wanker, you don't need him."

Regardless, regardless. Harry was his friend first and foremost.

With Harry's legs sprawled across his lap and a beer in hand, Ron sipped quickly, torn between contentment and intense discomfort. They were listening to a Magpies game on the wireless, Harry in rapt concentration, Ron in tired relaxation. He'd had what felt like an incredibly long day at Wheezes, and if he hadn't been greeted with the sight of Harry swaying along to a Weird Sister's ballad, decked out in an apron and stirring something that smelt positively sinful, he'd have probably given up on the day and stropped off to bed. Now, full of stroganoff and nursing his third bottle of the night, he surmised to himself that if all he would ever be were second best, he'd probably live a fairly happy life. Contrary to what Hermione may say, he wasn't stupid. He'd noticed the gestures on Harry's part, the cooking every night, the smiles, the…touches. He'd put it down to loneliness at first, missing Jack, missing, anyone. But lately they'd been bolder. Caught up in his thoughts, he missed the announcer calling half time, and Harry muttering something unpleasant about the Magpies Keeper. He swung his legs off of Ron and stalked over to the fridge, drawing out another two bottles and collapsing back onto the sofa. Ron watched through lidded eyes as he twisted the caps off and passed one to him.

"Thanks."

"No worries."

He drank deeply, the low sounds of the radio comforting background noise. A prickle on his neck alerted him to a gaze.

Harry was staring at him. Ron frowned at him, "You alright?"

"Huh?" He seemed dazed. His eyes were soft in the dim light, and as Ron watched, crimson bloomed over his neck and cheeks. He seemed to collect himself.

"Yeah, sorry. Got caught up in my thoughts."

He swigged from his bottle abruptly, coughing when it went down the wrong way. As he excused himself, Ron frowned. He traced the bottle hole absent-mindedly, staring into the space his friend had so speedily vacated.

Ron had learnt many undeniable truths in his short life thus far. One was that you must never, at any point, trust either Fred or George when not in a life or death situation. Another was that it doesn't matter how unhealthy it is, if there is a mess, Harry will clean it up, although these days it stems mainly to obsessive vacuuming, dishwashing and dusting. And another, when in doubt, go to Hermione.

Seated across the café table from her, Ron twisted a napkin to shreds and watched bemusedly as she yammered away in French to the waiter. After Pierre or whatever bounced off, he leant forwards, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Ooh la la, does the pretty lady like the onion toting type? And here I thought it was all about the books!"

Hermione smiled loftily and ignored him, scanning through the menu efficiently.

"Now, since you've taken the time to come and visit, I'm going to assume that you've got a problem." She fixed her eyes on him beadily, reminding him eerily of his old transfigurations teacher for a moment. He opened his mouth to respond in the negative, then shut it. Having spent two horrendous years in absolute silence, it could only be detrimental to keep anymore sodding quiet than he already had, and, quite frankly, he was sick of it. Sick of mooning after someone he'd thought he never stood a chance with, and now maybe did, if he'd read any of the sometimes blatant signals over the last weeks correctly. And sick of being so, bloody careful.

"I'm in love with Harry, and, unless I'm seeing things, I'm pretty damn sure he fancies me."

He sat back with a grin, light-hearted and intensely appreciative of the silence that greeted his words. Well, he thought as he stared at her face, she wouldn't be able to say I never shock her now.

Harry was curled up on the sofa when Ron flooed home, and looked up as the tall redhead stepped through the fireplace.

"Hey," he smiled.

Ron strode forwards, his steps sure and steady, clasping his hands and pulling until Harry was risen up on his knees, book tumbling to the floor. His eyes were locked onto Harry's, his thumbs stroking back and forth across the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger. Harry's smile wavered, his shoulders tensing and his mouth opening.

"Ron, what are you-"

He was cut off.

Ron's mouth, firm and insistent, pressed against his own. Harry's eyes, wide and shocked, could see every individual eyelash fluttering on the freckled face he knew as well as his own. The steady pressure of the lips on his seemed to slow, until he was aware of his own heart beating frantically. Then, as the man drew away from him, eyes guarded but completely unapologetic, he felt something inside of him give. His hands, from where they had rested limp at his side, flew to his mouth, touching his lips and shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the voice of his best friend mummer worriedly, "Harry?"

"You utter prat," he choked out, looking at him, eyes blazing, "you total, total git!"

His hands pulled the man to him, fingers tangling into the red at the nape of his neck and mouth once more pressed against his own. Hands were sliding over his back, underneath his shirt, scorching wherever they lay, pressing him against the hard planes and angles of his friend. A tongue was sweeping across his lips, pressing against his own and mapping it's way across his jaw line. Teeth grazed at his neck, and he choked, aware distantly of his own hands, bolder than he ever could have been, fumbling with buttons and tugging at hems. He was pressed backwards, sofa cushions flung to the floor and for a moment, he was bereft, cold, as he lay there under inspection. The look in Ron's eyes… he shivered. Too much.

A large warm hand, fingers grazing swollen lips, slid down his bare torso. He arched into it, eyes fluttering shut and breath held just a fraction too long. As the hand lifted from him, he exhaled, panting. The mouth descended on him again, his own name punctuating the messy petting, as they mapped each other out frantically.

"Gods, Harry-"

He gasped raggedly as their hips met, Ron grabbing his thighs roughly and spreading them, thrusting denim against the fabric of his jogging bottoms and groaning into his mouth. He reached around the man, desperate for as little space between them as possible, locking arms and calves around him as the pace increased. Ron lifted his head, shoulders flexing as he lifted himself. Harry's face was slack, his mouth swollen and open, eyes flying wide as Ron said his name, he lifted his hand to Ron's neck and he turned his head, lapping at the sweat in the crook of his elbow, blue eyes fixed on his own.

"Uh!" he shuddered, back arching as the man thrust once, twice, his own orgasm silent in its suddenness. He collapsed boneless onto the body underneath him.

The ragged sounds of breathing, and the commentators on the radio were the only sounds punctuating the air. As the sweat cooled and the lethargy set it, Ron lifted himself up and off, lying awkwardly next to the sprawled form, sated and unsure. Glancing sideways, green eyes locked on his own, a tentative smile gracing the features he knew so well. Ron felt his heart swell and he grinned back, happier than he'd ever thought possible.

"And…and, yes, yes! He's done it!" screeched the commentator, "he has the snitch!"

Ron closed his eyes, and smiled.


End file.
